


an unexpected guest

by wordsmithie



Series: A Waltz for Christmas and New Year [1]
Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Age Difference, Christmas, Christmas Smut, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Romance, Rosehill Cottage, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:07:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28338183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsmithie/pseuds/wordsmithie
Summary: Rose is delighted to receive an invitation to stay at her favourite cottage in Cotswolds, England and plans on holing herself up with Christmas music and writing out the rest of her romance novel. But an unexpected guest arrives, making it slightly difficult to focus on anything but him. Modern AU.
Relationships: DJ/Rose Tico
Series: A Waltz for Christmas and New Year [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2075250
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	an unexpected guest

**Author's Note:**

> OK, so this is basically just pure unadulterated, indulgent f l u f f. this was meant to be a short one-shot but it grew and grew and now i'm left with cavities. i'm obsessed with rosehill cottage (yep, kate winslet's cottage from "the holiday"), and i decided i needed a story with these two plus the cottage. i didn't mean to write something that's almost 13,000 words but here we are. i wanted to get this done way earlier, so this is very rushed, unfortunately. there's a vagueplot or something but it's buried deep, deep, deep beneath the fluff so it might as well not be there.

Rose hummed to the sprightly notes of “In Dulce Jubilo'' that wafted between the noises of passengers trying to find their seats. She couldn’t help it. She loved this time of year. The lights, the music, the decorations. It was hard not to get swept up in the cosiness and whimsy of it all. It was one of the few ways in which this version of her - the supposedly adult version - could tap into the wonder that had permeated her childhood. 

Christmas just made everything better. True, she was so tired she thought she could fall asleep standing. The last transfer had been exhausting, and she’d just managed to make the flight. And yes, most of it had been spent trying to exercise all her patience as the passengers on either side of her played a continuous game of jostle-Rose-in-the-middle. But this flight promised her a window seat, which meant only half the elbow jostling. She’d pull her hood down over her eyes and lose herself to the music and hopefully even to some sleep. 

Except - Rose stopped in her tracks - someone was already in her seat. A someone who was sprawled quite luxuriously, palms gripping what were supposed to be _her_ armrests, his legs stretching out over what should have been _her_ leg space. A someone who was apparently enjoying a nap and was probably not going to be too happy about her waking him. But, well - she’d actually paid the extra five dollars for seat selection, this time. You didn’t indulge like that and then just let your indulgences get away. 

“Uh - excuse me?”

She watched as the man sat unmoving. He looked like a statue. A weathered statue. The parts of his face that weren’t covered by a scratchy-looking beard were lined, but there was something about the jut of his brows and the curve of his lips that were strangely arresting. 

“Hello?” she tried again.

The man shifted. 

“Excuse me?”

He sighed and his head rolled in her direction, one eye opening and an eyebrow lifting as if to say “Yes?”

“Ah, hi.” She gave an unsure smile and half-wave and then dropped her hand. “Um, you’re in my seat.”

“¿C-c-cómo?” He squinted up at her, his voice a croak. 

“Oh, uh, you’re in my seat. I’m in 7A, see?” She pointed at the seat number above his head. 

He blinked up at it, and then at her. His brow furrowed. “¿Cómo?”

Rose gritted her teeth, trying to summon patience. No doubt he was confused due to his sleep-addled haze.

“I think that maybe you’ve switched the seating. You must be in a different seat.”

The man only continued to frown. “Qué? Qué quieres d-d-decir?” He pulled himself up, clearing his throat with a growl. He sounded as if he’d been a stranger to sleep for much longer than she was. He leaned forward, elbows on his knee, his fingers raking through the unruly hairs on his chin. “Escucha…” His voice was like gravel, strangely pleasant. He continued speaking in Spanish, his voice low and detached. He didn’t sound angry, but he also didn’t seem like he was in a hurry to give up the seat. He looked pretty settled in fact. And she supposed he _did_ look tired. He wasn’t a young man by any means, and the dark circles under his eyes and the way he kept squinting against the bright lights hinted at the depth of his fatigue. He was still talking in that muted tone, the words a slow plodding, as if he was too tired even to put energy into conversation. 

“Alright, okay, that’s alright.” Rose put up her hands. “You know what - you seem really tired. So you sit. And you don’t seem to get what I’m saying anyway. I’ll take the aisle seat.” Hopefully it was an unbooked one. She slipped her bag off her shoulders and shoved it into the overhead locker before settling down. 

The man smiled gently at her, his eyes squinting even further. “Eso siempre funciona.” He nodded. 

“Well,” she sighed, shifting in her seat and trying to get comfortable. “You seem like a nice person. And you do have a nice smile.”

The man said something in reply and gave her another sleepy smile, before leaning back and shutting his eyes. She tried not to see the smile as a smug one. She sighed, and had just settled back into her seat, pulling her hood up when a woman stopped in front of her, blinking at her through diamante-encrusted glasses. 

“You’re in my seat.”

Rose sighed. Of course she was. “Sorry.” 

She moved over, next to the sleeping man who’d stolen her seat and belted herself in. She held back another sigh. In the middle again. 

At least her purloining passenger seemed to be wearing nice perfume. She thought she also noted faint traces of cigar smoke clinging to him, the kind that her father broke out for special occasions. Rose took a comforting whiff and snuggled further into the seat. 

* * *

Her phone dinged with messages as soon as she turned it on. 

@drippin-in-finn-esse: _Hope you landed safely. Don’t forget to squirrel away some of those famous crescent cookies of Maz’s for me! Poe says hi._

@rey-ning_champ: _Rosie, you better text me when your feet hit solid ground again. I’m still mad jealous that Maz let you hide away in her cottage over Christmas but I need to know your arse is still alive._

@Maz_Kanata: _Darling, I expect your flight will be landing soon. Now, don’t bother taking the bus. It won’t get you nearly close enough to Rosehill Cottage. I’ve asked my friend, Amilyn, to give you a ride. She’ll be waiting at the bag pick-up area. She has purple hair - you can’t miss her. The key is in the little bird house hanging by the front porch._

Rose quickly fired off replies, stamping her feet as she did. The expansive airport didn’t allow for many pockets of warmth. She couldn’t wait to get to Maz’s cottage and start up the fire. She hit “send” on the last message ( _Yes, I’ll remember the cookies.; Yes, my ass is still alive. Hope yours isn’t too green.; Thank you again for letting me stay! You’re the best, Maz!)_ and headed for the bag pick-up area. 

She peered through people’s shoulders trying to spot her bright blue suitcase, but it was no use. She squeezed through, trying to get to the front. She wasn’t really looking when she bumped into someone’s arm. 

“Oh, sorry,” she said, looking up. “Oh. Hi.”

It was him - the man who’d stolen her seat. He stared down at her and gave a nod before turning away, lifting a cigarette to his lips. 

“You - you can’t smoke here.” 

The man turned back to her, that eyebrow lifting again. 

“Smoking isn’t allowed. See? I think there’s a sign.” She looked around. “OK. Well, there isn’t. But you can’t really smoke in airports.” 

The man’s brows furrowed again and there was something disarming about the way the movement seemed to soften the harsh lines of his face. He said something in Spanish. 

“You can’t - smoke.” Rose mimed smoking, and then waved her hands “No.” 

The man simply gazed at her and continued to rattle off something in Spanish. His tone was hard to decipher, Rose thought. He still spoke in the same mild register that he’d used in the plane. 

“Oh, gosh, I don’t think you’re understanding me.” She chewed on her lip. “Oh! I could use my phone! Hang on-”

The man’s words changed then, shifting from detached and observant, to something that felt like a caress, slipping out of his lips to do strange things to make her skin prickle in anticipation of...something. His dark eyes held hers with an urgency that was alarming and out-of-sorts for the bag pick-up area.

“What is happening?” Rose whispered, confused by the sudden slip into intensity. 

His mouth curved in a slight smile, and the soft words continued to pour forth. She couldn’t help but be pulled by the way his eyes crinkled and his lips promised her something she couldn’t begin to understand. He lifted a hand and brushed her cheek, her hair, tugged at the hanging strands. His touch was gentle, tender, and the aching familiarity of it in the strange airport was puzzling. A soft laugh escaped him then, and he flicked her cheek gently before turning and walking away. 

Rose blinked. “O...K. That was…” What had just happened? She’d been enchanted. That was clear. And maybe been made fun of? Rose rubbed her cheek absentmindedly and made her way to the conveyor belt. 

* * *

She’d finally found her bag - thanks to Paige’s tip that she loop her gaudiest scarf through the handle so that the silver sequins signalled to her like a flamboyant pirate flag (“At least that trashy thing will finally be useful,” Paige had scoffed). Rose didn’t agree about the trashy comment but she had to admit it was a good idea. 

She was keeping her eyes peeled for the lady with the purple hair that Maz had promised when she saw _him_ again. He was leaning against a pillar, talking into a phone. The cigarette seemed to have disappeared, she noted. She quickly turned her head, hoping that he wouldn't notice her as she walked past. Whatever had happened back there at the bag pick-up area was slightly humiliating and she has no wish to remind him of it. 

She tried to be as subtle as possible, but then snatches of his conversation that reached her ears made her stop. 

“Oh, c’mon, b-b-baby, don’t be like that.”

He could speak English?

“I was p-p-planning on picking something up on the way. I’m close to your place now.”

The jerk!

“For you? Of course I got something for you as well as your parents. What do you take me for?” His words dripped with reassurance even as his face maintained a level of blankness that Rose both marvelled at and was disgusted by. His poor girlfriend. 

“No, no, of course not. How can you th-th-think that? I would-” He stopped, pulling the phone away from him to give it a tired glare, a sigh escaping him. 

“Women,” he muttered as he switched it off. He turned, and his expression fell as he caught sight of Rose. “Nombre de Dios, not you.”

“Yeah, me!” she hissed. “You can understand English.”

His eyes flicked heavenward. “D-d-don’t know if that can be called understanding,” he said, jerking his head at his phone.

“You know exactly what I mean!”

“And this is exactly what I need,” he rasped to some unseen witness of their conversation. 

“I paid extra for that seat,” Rose said through gritted teeth. 

He ran a hand through the wilting strands of his hair and turned bleary eyes on her. Had she thought them arresting? They were only tools for deception, that was all. 

“Listen, kid, you’re endearing and all but you’re pushing it, alright? I was tired. I took your seat. It’s done.” He jerked a shoulder in a shrug and walked off leaving her open-mouthed behind him. 

Endearing? Pushing it? Did he think she was trying to be _cute_? Rose suddenly had a flashing urge to commit serious violence. She took a deep breath. 

“Alright, Rose, that’s enough. Just forget the asshole stranger.” 

The cottage was waiting for her at the end of a car ride which wasn’t far off. It was almost Christmas. And she was going to spend the rest of the week doing nothing but baking and writing. Everything was alright with the world. 

Well - she threw a filthy glance at the retreating back of the (English-speaking) asshole stranger - almost everything. But she’d forget about asshole strangers quickly enough. 

* * *

Rose grinned at the sight of the nearing cottage as Amilyn’s car trundled up the snowy lane. The small bushes that huddled around the cottage were bare of leaves, touched generously with layers of snow. A wreath hung on the green door, and it felt as if Maz was right there to welcome her. 

“Here we are,” Amilyn sang out. “Home, safe and sound! As _repeatedly_ promised to Maz.”

Rose turned to her, laughing. “Aw, thank you so much. Maz is very sweet, and you’re even more sweet to have agreed to drive me all the way out here.”

Amilyn waved her hand. “Oh, it’s no problem, I assure you. A pleasure to help out one of Maz’s friends. Now, I won’t keep you long because I can see from the very enormous grin on your face that you’re rearing to get inside, so let’s get your bag.” 

Rose couldn’t help grinning some more. “You’re right about the getting inside bit. But I can definitely manage my bag. Thank you so much!” 

She got out of the car, and opened the backseat to pull her suitcase out, waving at Amilyn as she sped past before turning to let herself in through the gate. She’d only visited Maz’s Rosehill Cottage twice before, and both times she’d fallen fast and hard for it. So fast and hard, in fact, that when Maz got wind of the fact that Rose’s family would be travelling to Vietnam for the holidays while Rose stayed behind to do some work, Maz had immediately offered the cottage up as a holiday writing retreat. She’d waved away Rose’s weak protestations about invading her home, stating that she was going to spend her Christmas in Hawaii, and the cottage would be standing empty, anyway.

Of course, there was no way Rose was going to say no after that. 

The cottage looked cosy and welcoming from the outside, even without the windows lit up and no curls of smoke at the chimney hinting at warm fires. The little birdhouse that Maz had mentioned in her text hung near the vestibule, tied to one of the small eaves with a rope. Rose unlatched the small front window and stuck her hand in, feeling for the key. The Christmas wreath hanging on the cottage door seemed to smile at her, and the shining bells fastened to the greenery winked under the sun’s rays, mirroring her delight. 

She struck the key in the lock and jiggled it a bit to overcome the cold stiffness. There was a loud click and Rose pushed at the wood, the door sliding open with a sigh. 

Hello, the cottage seemed to whisper. 

“Hello, you lovely thing,” Rose murmured. She pulled her suitcase into the darkened interior. Its small confines and bright-coloured trappings immediately lightened her heart. It was enough to dispel sour thoughts of men with dark circles under their eyes who used their half-smiles to make people swallow their half-truths. 

After a luxurious shower and having washed off her travel dust, Rose had the fire going, the string of lights twinkling across the ceiling bannisters, and her Christmas playlist filling up the kitchen and lounge. 

It was already darkening outside but the interior of the cottage seemed to flush with golden-hued happiness. The only thing missing, of course, was a cup of tea, which Rose promptly set about rectifying, dancing along to the festive notes. She put the kettle on before opening one of the cupboards, searching for her favourite mug in Maz’s collection. It was a pale blue one with small, yellow roses climbing up the handle. She’d just spotted it when a rasp of a voice behind her said, “I never warmed to this song.”

Without thinking she turned and lobbed the mug at the intruder. 

* * *

He hated this time of year. His disdain for it had nothing to do with the crowds, or the forced cheer, though by God, that did start to grate eventually. 

No, it was more the fact that everyone forced him to engage in their forced cheer that he found especially irksome. 

Hey, if they all wanted to behave like idiots and run around spending money on things that would only survive the show-and-tell period of Christmas Day and reach the use-by date by the next, then sure - why not. Whatever floated their hole-ridden boats. But expecting the same from him? That was taking it too far. 

Like right now, for instance. Part of the reason he was on this flight was because his girlfriend, Olivia (of only two months), had insisted that they spend Christmas with her family. In London. It was, of course, entirely his fault for stumbling into a relationship with someone who was “originally from over the pond”. And it was most definitely his fault for allowing her to think that they were anywhere near the vicinity of going-to-visit-the-other’s-family-for-Christmas level of exclusive. Because they weren’t. As far as he was concerned, at least.

It might not be a completely fruitless mission if he could sign the new client for his job. Two birds and all that. Not that Olivia needed to know about the second part. Or maybe she did. That might be his way out of this.

A shoddy version of some old Christmas song blared weakly through the airplane speakers and he bit back a groan. He may have to rethink his policy on holiday music after all. Why would they choose to play it in an enclosed space that you couldn’t escape from? With his eyes closed, the discordance of the song and the sound of over-excited kids and their harried parents was all the more obvious. In between the mix wove a gentle voice, humming along happily to the tune. Far too happily for his liking. It moved closer and closer. He kept his eyes shut, hoping that the owner of the voice would keep moving past him. He did not need a Christmas fanatic sitting next to him for the duration of this flight. But the stars didn’t seem to be aligning in his favour because the voice stopped humming just as it reached him. 

“Uh - excuse me?”

He kept his eyes closed. Maybe the owner of the voice wasn’t addressing him. Maybe she was addressing the person in front of him. Or behind him. Anyone but him. He didn’t want to interact with anyone right now. Especially not someone who actually enjoyed the fact that airlines now found it acceptable to play Christmas music on airplanes. 

“Hello?”

How long could he do this? 

“Excuse me?”

Alright, it seemed like she was definitely addressing him. He opened an eye. A young woman hovered in his periphery, rosy-cheeked (there was no other term for it, her cheeks were touched with faint crimson) and tousled strands of dark hair escaping a green, knitted hat. She was the stereotypical picture of Christmas cheer and he just managed to hold back a snarl. 

“Ah, hi.” There was a fleeting smile and an attempt at a wave as if they were - what? Friends? “Um, you’re in my seat.”

“What?” Except he said it in Spanish. He didn’t think he needed to make life easier for people who sang along to Christmas songs in airplanes.

“Oh, uh, you’re in my seat. I’m in 7A, see?” 

Ah, damnit. He hadn’t been paying close enough attention to his boarding pass. But also damnit because he did not feel inclined to give up the window seat. This seat would mean the game of defending an armrest was only reduced to one opponent instead of two. Plus, to be frank, he was far too lazy to move. 

“¿Cómo?” he said, trying to stall.

“I think that maybe you’ve switched the seating. You must be in a different seat.”

She was being remarkably patient, he thought. But patience was a virtue that was only rarely rewarded. If anything, it only indicated just how much a person was willing to put up with. Which of course left opportunists like him to take up more space - and seats - in the world. 

He continued to pretend incomprehension. He didn’t know what it was - perhaps the last straw was the Christmas song, or the last presumptive and annoyingly commanding text from Olivia telling him that he needed to bring along an expensive present for her parents if he wanted to get on their good side - but he was feeling particularly uncharitable. He could see that despite the look of general amiability the young woman might not let this go. 

So he launched into a recitation of the stations of the cross. In Spanish, of course. Surprisingly, he still remembered a good portion of it. Tia Elena would be proud (and surprised). 

The young woman was silent, her words dying midway through her parted lips, and he tried not to dwell on the fact that she looked both endearing and entertaining. A smile almost fought to surface but he repressed it. Wouldn’t do to look accommodating after all. 

She surrendered, put her palms out, murmured something about him being tired (that part was definitely true), and something else about him not understanding her (that part wasn’t). 

It was a small, sweet victory. 

“That always works,” he murmured, smiling at her in his hidden triumph before relaxing in his seat. 

“Well,” she sighed, shifting in her seat and trying to get comfortable. “You seem like a nice person. And you do have a nice smile.”

“One out of two isn’t bad,” he murmured under his breath, and settled back in his seat. 

* * *

He inhaled deeply and blew out the smoke in a steady stream. God, he needed this. He’d fallen into a deep sleep on the plane and had only woken when the flight attendant gave him a nudge on the shoulder after almost all of the passengers had disembarked. The surreal liminality of airports was only increased by the effects of his intense nap. He’d taken lethargic steps towards the bag pick-up area and was waiting, mind listless, just barely alert enough to keep an eye out for his baggage when he felt someone knock into him. 

“Oh, sorry,” said a clear voice. 

He turned and could have almost groaned. It was his flying companion. 

“Oh. Hi.” She didn’t look particularly pleased to see him. Was she going to have a go at him about the seat? That was just what he needed. 

“You - you can’t smoke here.” 

OK, that surprised him. He blinked sleepily at her. 

“Smoking isn’t allowed. See? I think there’s a sign. OK. Well, there isn’t. But you can’t really smoke in airports.” 

“Kid, I’ve had a long day, alright.” He still opted for Spanish, hoping it would deter her. But, of course, it didn’t. Because it was his lucky day. He took another drag of his cigarette.

“You can’t - smoke. No.” She was attempting some casual form of sign language. 

“You should think about working for this airline, you know,” he murmured, still refusing to revert to English.

“Oh, gosh, I don’t think you’re understanding me.” Her gaze, clouded with worry, trailed away from him. She was biting her lip, lost in thought. “Oh! I could use my phone! Hang on-”

“You know, with a mouth as...enticing as yours seems to be, you’d think you’d use it for good instead of coming after me.” He couldn’t help staring at her lips and thought fleetingly about kissing her right there. It probably wouldn’t be a good idea. “I think I know just how you’d taste, too. And I’d probably want to keep tasting you…”

“What is happening?” the girl whispered. 

Her face was a picture of utter bewilderment and it made him laugh. Her eyes had gone wide, and her cheeks, those blasted cheeks so prone to flushing were doing so now. He reached out a hand to brush one. 

“Don’t worry. I don’t think I will kiss you. It wouldn’t be one of my smarter decisions, if I did.” He played with the strands of hair that had escaped her hat, picking at the green ribbon from it that had become entangled with the black strands. 

“If I were to kiss you, I’d be lost.” He tugged at the soft ribbon, curling it between his fingers even as he kept staring at her parted lips. “And _you’d_ definitely be lost, no doubt about it.”

He laughed again, at himself, at the look of confusion that still lingered in her eyes. But mixed with the confusion was a spark, a yearning that threatened to pull him closer. So he fought it. He pulled black, tapped her cheek as if to say goodbye, and walked away. 

* * *

The text had absolutely been calculated to get Olivia to break up with him. He was a coward, he’d freely admit that. He hated being the one to drop the bad news, hated having to deal with the aftermath that inevitably followed. He much preferred it when they made the choice all on their own and decided to walk away from him.

So he pretended remorse when Olivia called him following the slapdash text he’d sent about forgetting that her parents would be joining them for Christmas, and that he’d “try and find something at the airport.” He’d known it would enrage her. He went through the usual words, tried to sound contrite and remorseful. But really, the call was all about Olivia getting to rant at him. He was merely there to add the in-between words, to play the callous, background boyfriend in her grand, tragic love story.

“You’re a cold, heartless man,” she yelled, cutting into whatever nonsense he’d been saying. “I never want to see you again.” He winced. It was exactly what he’d wanted, of course. But was it too much to ask that she didn’t shout the words at such a pitch that only antagonised the twinging in his temple.

“Women,” he muttered. He turned and almost cursed at the sight of his flying companion again. Instead, he settled for taking the Lord’s name in vain. Tia Elena would not be proud (and unsurprised). “Nombre de Dios, not you.”

“Yeah, me!” Gone was the bewildered gaze and enchantingly parted lips. She was now hissing at him like a small viper. “You can understand English.”

“D-d-don’t know if that can be called understanding.”

“You know exactly what I mean!”

“And this is exactly what I need.” He’d just gotten rid of one angry woman, only to be beset by another. If Tia Elena were here she’d say it was exactly what he deserved for daring to use the Stations of the Cross for non-religious reasons. 

“I paid extra for that seat,” the girl growled. 

He tugged at his hair. It had just been a seat. It was time to let it go, surely. 

“Listen, kid, you’re endearing and all but you’re pushing it, alright? I was tired. I took your seat. It’s done.” He gave a shrug, and for the second time that day, he left her standing there, (lips still enticing, cheeks still flushed) and walked away. 

* * *

For the first time since he’d started on this godforsaken trip, he felt a spurt of relief at the sight of Rosehill Cottage. He’d known Maz’s place was nearby, though he hadn’t been able to remember the exact address. Asking directions hadn’t been the easiest, and the farmer who’d picked him up had dropped him off at the end of Rosehill Lane, unwilling to drive the extra few (maybe several) miles just to drop him off at the cottage’s doorstep. DJ couldn’t blame him. 

“Why in God’s name does she live out in the middle of nowhere?” he muttered to his boots which kept being swallowed by a foot of snow with every step he took. At least he was here. Yes, it was past nine, and he could only see his way thanks to the moon that chose to avoid the straying clouds near it. But he was here. The cottage was so close he could almost feel the warmth of the fire. The smoke that drifted from the chimney lightened even his jagged outlook. Bless Maz. She’d at least offer him a couch, he knew that much. 

He hefted the duffel bag onto his shoulders and knocked, grimacing at the wreath that eyed him. He could hear the sound of drums from within. Something on the radio, no doubt. Maz was not one for percussion instruments. He knocked again, and when that still didn’t yield a response he shrugged and tried the handle. It was unlocked. He stepped in, stamping his boots on the rug by the porch, before shutting the door behind him. He dropped his bag in the hallway and headed straight for the fireplace in the lounge. 

“That’s the stuff.” 

But good God, why did she have this song playing? He would love to put a cork in the Kelly Clarkson numbers during Christmas, he thought, making his way to the kitchen. 

“I never warmed to this song,” he said with a grimace, looking up just in time to see something blue come hurtling at him. 

He ducked. There was the sound of something shattering behind him. 

“You!”

He took a closer look at his attacker. The person he’d thought was Maz wrapped in a large blanket was in fact his rosy-cheeked, green knit-hatted (though she seemed to have abandoned the hat), holier-than-thou flying companion. 

“Which g-g-gods did I anger to deserve this?” he mused.

“What the - why are you _everywhere_ I go?” Her eyes were a bit manic. The bit of tinsel that was looped around her neck only added to the effect. 

“I could say the s-s-same,” he pointed out. 

“Who _are_ you? What are you doing here?” Her hands were waving, outrageous. 

“Where’s Maz?”

“Where’s -” she stopped short. “You know Maz?” 

“Of course, I know Maz. I don’t j-j-just go barging into stranger’s houses.”

“Well, you steal people’s seats, so I don’t see why not.” She bulged her eyes, hands up in a shrug. Her whole body seemed to react against him. 

“Th-th-that’s not remotely the same thing.” His expression was flat. 

“Yeah, alright. I know.” She dropped her hands. “Obviously.” Her eyes drifted to his feet. “And now you’ve made me break my favorite mug.” She grabbed the broom that sat in the corner and proceeded to sweep up the broken shards. 

“Oh no, not your favourite mug. I really seem to be your own personal d-d-demon, don’t I?” he said with mock irony. 

Her head shot up. “Hey, you don’t get to joke. You still haven’t answered my question.”

“Uh - r-r-remind me what it was again?” He scratched the back of his head. “I’m still reeling from having th-th-things thrown at me.”

She glared at him. “Thing. Singular. And you haven’t told me what you're doing here.”

“Singular,” he huffed, laughing. “Right. I’m here because Maz has promised me the shelter of her roof.”

“No, she didn’t.”

He kept his gaze blank. Something that wasn’t so easy to do with her cheeks flushing like that. “Yes, she did.”

“No. She couldn’t have. She offered _me_ the shelter of her roof.”

He blinked once. “You?”

“Yeah. Me.”

“And why would she offer it to you?”

“Why shouldn’t she?” Her chin went up automatically. He could have predicted it. She seemed familiar, as if her entry into his orbit was a choreography he’d memorised a long time ago and buried, and was only just recalling to the surface. “You aren’t the only one she knows after all.”

“And isn’t she fortunate?” he murmured.

“So how do you know her?” The arms were crossed. 

He let out a long sigh and took his time removing his coat and draping it over the back of a chair before lowering himself onto it. He could practically feel her teeth tightening with each second he took not answering her question and the thought almost made him grin. 

“Aren’t you going to offer me a d-d-drink?” He tilted his head at her, scratching the hairs at his chin.

“No. I’m not. Not until I know who you are and why you’re here.”

“Ah, so you _will_ offer me one later.”

Her expression was flat and her eyes unblinking. She looked supremely uninterested, but he could still see the tightness of her jaw. He was having far more fun than he ought. 

He sat back in the chair and sniffed. “Maz and I go way back. I used to do jobs for her in the past.”

“Jobs for her? What does that even mean? Maz is secretly a mafia boss?” Her expression was an impressive mix of scorn and incredulity. 

“You know,” he said, his tone conversational as he reached out and took a handful of nuts from the bowl on the table, “for someone with a g-g-gentle-looking face you certainly give off a very p-p-prickly attitude.” 

“Gee, I wonder why.”

He crunched the nuts with obnoxious loudness. “Something tells me that’s not g-g-generally true. I must just be lucky.”

“Right in one,” she growled, yanking the bowl away from the reach of his fingers and he laughed. 

“Alright, claws in. I’m a coder. Maz and I go a long way b-b-back. I used to do freelance work and helped set up the website for her antiques business. Name’s Diego José. But friends call me DJ. Th-th-though,” he said, taking advantage of her distraction (she’d started furiously texting for some reason) and scooting forward on his elbows to take back the bowl of nuts, “I’m guessing you won’t be doing that.”

Her phone dinged and she looked up. “Huh. You aren’t lying.”

“Well, I f-f-figured you wouldn’t see me as a friend,” he shrugged.

“Not that,” she said, her lips curling. She held up the phone. “Guess Maz does know you.”

He scooted forward and narrowed his eyes at the little glowing screen. 

_Yes, I know that scoundrel. He better behave himself. In fact, I’ll text him now._

“I always behave myself,” he said, looking up at her with a grin, intrigued at the way the flush in her cheeks grew deeper and spread to suffuse her neck below the tinsel. 

“That’s debatable, I guess.” And then she turned back to the open cupboard with the mugs and proceeded to ignore him. 

He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket but ignored it. No doubt it was the incredibly prompt Maz. 

“So, d-d-do I get your name? You know mine.”

“Rose Tico,” she bit out. 

He paused. “Rose?”

“Couldn’t you hear?”

“Rose? At Rosehill Cottage? You expect me to believe that?”

She turned just enough to hit him with her blistering glare. “That’s my name.” Her tone was pure venom.

He put his hands in surrender and she turned away. 

“Any chance we c-c-could change the music?”

A short, sharp “No” thrown over one tinsel-covered shoulder. 

“And a chance of a cup of tea’s probably about the same?” he mused. 

“Right again.” 

“You know, for someone who’s in love with C-C-Christmas, you’re not displaying a lot of Christmas spirit.” That got him more of a reaction. She turned around to pin him with a narrow-eyed glare. It was fierce, sure, but that ridiculous loop of tinsel really undermined any fierceness. 

“Oh, and are you going to educate me about Christmas spirit?” Her lips were small, lush, like the edges of curling rose petals after gentle rain and for the third time that day he felt the urge to taste them. God, he really needed a drink. 

He stood up with a groan. “I’m far more interested in other spirits. Th-th-think I still remember where Maz stocks the good stuff.” 

He moved over to the glass cabinet that sat in the area where the kitchen became the lounge. 

“You’re just going to help yourself to her drinks?”

“You’re j-j-just helping yourself to her tea,” he countered, running an eye over the bottles that were at varying degrees of fullness. 

“Yeah, because she invited me. I don’t remember her saying that she invited you.”

“Th-th-think of mine as a standing invitation.” There was a scoff from the kitchen and he smiled. He chose the whiskey that was hidden at the back, grabbed two glasses and made his way to the table. 

“A g-g-glass of whiskey, my uncharitable friend?”

She turned to him with an eyebrow raised and took a sip of tea through her pursed lips. “No, thanks.”

He shook his head, pouring himself a generous amount before tipping it back. He sighed. “Th-th-that is perfect after slogging through that snow.”

He dropped into the chair once more and leaned back luxuriously. 

She fixed him with a gimlet eye and it made his mouth twitch.

“So, tell me, what’s landed you th-th-this special invitation from Maz, huh? Shouldn’t someone so Christmas-obsessed be spending the days leading up to it with her family and true love with the partridge in a pear tree and however many lords and ladies a-milking as much of the season as they can?”

She threw him an unimpressed glare as if she didn’t think his assessment of Christmas was at all accurate. “She wasn’t going to be staying here in December, and knew that I’d be in the area for work.”

“Here for work, huh? We’re in th-th-the same boat, you and I. What’s it you do, then?”

She swallowed the sip of tea she’d taken and squared her shoulders, eyes glinting with a harsher light if that was even possible. “I write romance novels.”

He kept his mouth closed, running his tongue over his teeth as he nodded. 

“I know you want to laugh, you jerk.”

And then he did - but only a little - barely a laugh, more a gasp, really. “It’s just - you know, you’ve still got a tinsel scarf,” he diverted, waving a hand around his own neck. 

She blanched a bit, but didn’t move to remove it. It was definitely too late now he thought with a small smile, taking another sip of the whiskey. 

He decided to take pity on her and move on from the tinsel. “So, r-r-romance novels, huh?,” he asked, learning on his elbows and cocking an eyebrow. “Do you mean like the dirty kind? All heaving bosoms and ripped shirts?”

She took another sip of her tea, movements stiff. “If you’re living in the eighties. There’s a bit more to it than that.”

“Do I get to read some?” He waggled his eyebrows, though he knew the answer, of course. 

“No!”

“Is that why you’re here?” he pushed. “To get away from the world? Do some writing?”

“Something like that.”

He whistled. “Lucky me, bedmates with a real-life romance novelist.”

“We’re _not_ bedmates.”

“Only a manner of speaking,” he shrugged. “D-d-don’t worry. I’ll only crawl into the bed if you ask really nicely.” He gave a wink, hamming it up. He couldn’t help it. She was wound so tight he could practically hear the coiled springs straining. He wanted to set her off with each word. 

“ _That_ won’t be happening,” she barked, before draining her cup and then giving it the most violent rinsing that he’d ever witnessed. She slammed it onto the draining board and whirled out of the kitchen and up the stairs in a flash of ruffled tinsel. 

He sighed and raised his glass to her before taking a long sip. “Goodnight, tinsel girl.

* * *

Sleeping in a new bed always resulted in a night of half-sleep, but one of the few benefits of that was alarms being very difficult to ignore. She’d woken up at five a.m. to a hushed quiet and managed to crack out two major scenes in almost as many hours. And that was before even a single sip of coffee. But now that the haze of unbridled writing had lifted her parched throat and grumbling stomach were hard to ignore. 

Downstairs, it was just as quiet. The falling snow from the previous day had settled, bringing with it a muted world. The unexpected guest also appeared to be asleep. Rose tiptoed past the lounge. The longer he was asleep and not looking at her with those hooded, laughing eyes of his, the better. She would take some of the gifted time to steel herself. And, of course, make some buttermilk pancakes. She’d set the coffee brewing and before it was halfway done she had the pancake batter whipped. 

“Ah, now th-th-this is nice to wake up to,” said a voice behind her. An indecently raspy voice, lower now than it had been last night no doubt due to sleep and however many glasses of whiskey had been downed by its owner.

“You’re dreaming if you think I’m making these pancakes for you,” she said without turning around. She poured herself a steaming mug of coffee.

“Feels like a d-d-dream anyway, sweetheart,” his voice came close behind her, and she started slightly. His arm snaked over her to open the cupboard and grab a mug, placing it on the counter in front of her and after a staccato sigh she filled it as well. 

“M-m-much obliged,” he said. She watched as he tipped the mug back and slugged the majority of its contents all in one go, her eyes tracing the small movements of his throat, the black and silver stubble that was scattered widely at the base of it. 

He swallowed and then let out a satisfied little exhale, turning to look at her with a little wink. “You plus a warm brew. Didn’t count on my day having such an enchanting start.” 

Rose pulled her gaze from his dark-eyed one, not caring for the way that his eyes seemed to call her, nor for the way his casual words affected her. She needed to get a hold of herself. This wasn’t one of her romance novels, after all. 

“Don’t get used to it. I think it would be a good idea for you to start looking for some accomodation soon.”

He furrowed his brow, a hand going up to his chest. “You wound me, Miss Tico. You really d-d-doubt that we’d be so incompatible as housemates?” 

She turned her attention back to the stove and flipped the pancake. It was a little too burned. She needed to stop focusing on the stranger and instead focus on the pancakes. 

“What I doubt is that you’d want to spend however many nights using the couch as a mattress. It can’t have been very comfortable.”

She was surprised to see him nod. Rubbing his neck, he gave a theatrical groan. “I d-d-do have to say, it left me feeling a bit stiff.” He looked up, turning woebegone eyes at her. The play at vulnerability shouldn’t have come so easy for someone with such a heavy brow, but somehow it did. “If only you’d shared the warmth of your b-b-bed, miss,” he added in a Cockney accent. 

Annoyingly, the stupid attempt at the accent coaxed a smile out of her. “The couch is reserved for airplane seat thiefs,” she muttered.

He huffed with laughter. “Alright, I’ll give you that one.” After swallowing the last of the coffee, he rinsed the cup and dried his hands. “Now, I need a shower before that meeting. Presumably, airplane seat thieves can get access to the bathroom?”

“Only the ones who wash their coffee cups,” she quipped. 

His delighted laughter trailed behind him. 

* * *

He had the presence of mind to stop at the grocer’s on the way home to grab a small chocolate cake. Something told him that his housemate had a bit of a sweet tooth, and he needed all the sweetness in his arsenal for persuasion. 

Except when he opened the door to the cottage it was to find it filled with the smells of baking. She looked up from where she was standing by the dining table, bowls and dishes laid out on it, filled to varying degrees with various ingredients. Her hair was tied up in a neat bun, but flour dusted her apron, and - he noticed with closer inspection - there was a dusting of it on her cheek. He smiled to himself. She was a messy baker despite her best intentions.

“I see you’ve b-b-beat me to the idea,” he said, holding up the bakery bag. 

“Oh. Yeah. I bake when the writing isn’t happening. And...well, it’s almost Christmas.”

“Th-th-this isn’t for seasonal reasons,” he said, walking to the table and depositing the bag on it before removing his coat. “It was for...remorseful reasons.”

“Oh?” She blinked up at him. Now that he was closer he could see there was a smear of flour on her nose as well. Part of him wanted to brush it off, and another part, a sillier part, wanted to leave it because there was something oddly charming about it sitting there, a temporary, snowy mark on the tip of her nose. The sillier part of him won. And he had a strong suspicion that if he wiped it off, he would feel a strong need to leave a kiss where the flour had been.

He nodded, sucking on his teeth. “What can I say? I was an asshole about the s-s-seat, and I thought cake would be the only way to make up for it.”

“Huh,” she nodded, her assessing gaze moving from him to the bag and then back to him. “And, of course, trying to find any vacancies around here right now would be a nightmare?”

He slumped onto the table dramatically, gripping the edges and leaning forward to peer into her eyes. “An abso _lute_ nightmare,” he groaned.

His ridiculous movements pulled an unexpected bubble of laughter from her, and for some reason, it made him feel proud. That, too, was ridiculous. He couldn’t help smiling up at her from his crooked position over the edge of the table. For the first time since they’d met, she was looking at him (positively beaming down at him) without any trace of doubt, suspicion, or dislike. It was a heady feeling. 

She broke their gaze, looking down at the mixture she was folding in the bowl. 

“You’re lucky because I did find my Christmas spirit while you were gone. If Maz has no objections, then I don’t see why I should. And you did bring chocolate cake,” she added, with a tilt of her head. 

He nodded slowly, straightening. “Knew my instincts were right on th-th-that one.” Sliding his hands into his pockets, he sniffed , looking around. “Seeing as you’ve got d-d-dessert sorted, how about I handle dinner?” It had been many years since he'd asked a girl about dinner _and_ had to pretend that her answer to his question didn’t make much of a difference to him. 

“Oh,” she blinked up at him, lips parting. “That’s...very kind.” He bit back a smile at the obvious pause in her words. “But my editor is keen to catch up and invited me out for dinner…” she trailed off, nose wrinkling apologetically. 

He shrugged, assuming the mantle he wore so easily, that of a man to whom it mattered very little how the world turned. “Hey, no problem. You enjoy the d-d-dinner.” 

“Thank you, though,” she said. The wrinkle at her nose had disappeared, but it seemed to have taken a piece of his sanity with it because he was suddenly reaching out two fingers to brush off some of the flour from the tip of her nose. 

She stilled. So did he. So did the world. 

“Th-th-there was some flour on your nose,” he said. 

But then it was incumbent that he move, because as soon as he’d touched one part of her face the other parts called to him, too. 

“And here.” He brushed the curve of her cheek softly, once, twice, and then gave into temptation and let his fingers line the curve of it, cupped the side of her face. She watched him with surprise in her eyes. Her cheek was warm under his hand, and he imagined the blood thrumming underneath her skin, reacting to him, heat spreading. And he knew that if he kissed her, her lips would be hot against his. And now that he’d thought about the feel of them, he found he couldn’t resist the sight of them. 

“No flour th-th-there, though.” He felt as if he hadn’t used his voice in days. His world had zeroed in on her mouth, the hypnotising curves of it, the minute sounds of her shallow breathing. He envied the air, its claim to move freely between her lips. 

He’d just decided to forego another piece of his sanity and kiss her when there was a loud _ding!_

She started, blinking and shaking her head as if coming out of an insulated bubble. He dropped his hand. 

“What is that?” He couldn’t help growling, as angry as if something had been stolen from him.

“That’s - that’s the timer.” She sounded dazed, breathless. But not breathless enough, not as breathless as she would have been if he’d had anything to say about it. “The cookies. They’re done.” And still sounding dazed and as if on auto-pilot she moved away from him and towards the oven. 

“Right,” he muttered to himself. He needed to get out. He needed to escape this space that she was in, bewitching him with her baking and her flour-dusted nose and her damned lips. “I need a shower,” he said to the room at large and made a hasty retreat.

* * *

She deleted the last three paragraphs and let her head fall against the table. The story wasn’t going anywhere. No matter how many different paths she’d tried to take the plot had stayed firmly stuck. Unlike her mind, which kept wandering without her permission.

Wandering away from her story, wandering to the man downstairs, the man with the crooked, secret smile, and the distant eyes that could turn warm and crinkled in an instant. It hadn’t helped that, in the last half hour or so, she’d heard him up and about, heard the shower running, heard him moving around in the kitchen. With each passing minute, she’d had to fight for the restraint to stay in the bedroom and write.

It was a little embarrassing. So someone brushed flour off her nose and she was suddenly putty in their hands? She needed to get a grip. But what she _wanted_ was to go downstairs, even though doing so would mean the opposite of getting a grip. He hadn’t been home when she’d returned after dinner last night, and she hadn’t heard him return before she fell asleep. Her brain seemed to be having withdrawals for a stranger. 

No. She needed to stop. She sat up and made a Herculean effort to focus again. She deleted another paragraph for good measure. She looked out the window. She turned back to her laptop screen and deleted a sentence. How many darlings were you meant to kill, anyway? She sighed and blew at the strand of fringe that had escaped her bun.

The sound of a muffled crash broke through her uninspired haze and she shot up from her desk, hurtling downstairs. 

“Is everything alright?” She felt wild-eyed. 

He straightened, holding a silver platter in his hand. “Ah, finally she emerges.”

“What was that noise?”

“J-j-just knocked this,” he said, wiggling the platter before sliding it back into one of the cupboards. “Absolutely by accident.”

She frowned. “OK…”

“Care for some hot chocolate, querida?” He moved to the stove where a saucepan sat simmering, and took up the wooden spoon to stir what was presumably the hot chocolate. 

“Oh, um…” Her mind scrambled to recall her grade school Spanish. She was pretty sure she knew what “querida” meant. 

“I should warn you, it’s Mexican hot chocolate.” He turned around and leaned back against the bench, twirling the wooden spoon in his fingers as he watched her. He was wearing a dark blue, eminently comfortable looking sweater, and it contrasted far too well with the light blue of the cupboard doors. He looked like he belonged in a rustic _Home & Garden _ spread. “It has a bit more bite th-th-than the regular stuff.” His dark gaze felt too heavy to hold and yet she couldn’t seem to look away. 

“Is that - is that chilli powder I smell?” It seemed hard to get her words out when he was watching her like that. 

“Right in one.” He gave a tilt of the head. His hair looked as if it had been accosted by a towel but not come face to face with a comb afterwards. And it left him looking rumpled and vulnerable and she wanted to run her hands through it. 

She swallowed and curled her fingers, trying to curb their stupid impulse. “Yeah, I’ll give it a try.” 

His eyes flicked to her hands and then back up to her face, and she was suddenly very conscious of the overly large hoodie she was wearing and her hair deflating in its bun. 

A small smile played across his lips. “Th-th-that’s the spirit.” He turned to give the hot chocolate another stir. She watched the lines of his shoulder and his back muscles move in bunches beneath his sweater. He looked solid and warm and she had the outrageously horrifying need to burrow her nose between his shoulder blades. She turned around, bulging her eyes at her idiocy. 

“Come on.” His voice was close behind her and she started, turning to see that he had a mug of the steaming liquid chocolate in each hand. He nudged her towards the table with his elbow and she took a seat, murmuring her thanks as he set one of the mugs in front of her. She found she couldn’t look him in the eyes after the recent humiliating direction of her thoughts so she focused on the warmth the mug was emanating, on taking cautious sips of the delicious smelling contents. 

“And?” 

She looked up to see him watching her with one eyebrow raised. At this proximity she could see the faint lines around his eyes and his lips. “It’s different.” 

“D-d-different.” He’d taken a seat next to her on her left and he leaned forward now, angling his head, far too close. His eyes twinkled under his heavy brow and he looked almost boyish. “No need to spare my feelings, you know.”

A strange shyness seemed to overtake her, and she twisted her mouth, trying to stop the smile that he seemed to be pulling out of her with ease. “You know I have no such concerns.” She took another sip of the drink. “It’s...different. I don’t know. I’m still making up my mind.” 

“You need time,” he said, nodding, and from the look in his eyes it wasn’t clear if he was only talking about the hot chocolate. 

“Yeah, I guess,” she said, breaking away from his eyes. She felt like a coward. 

“So, t-t-tell me,” he said, clearing his throat and sitting back in the chair, “how’s the writing going? How many bodices have been ripped so f-f-far?”

She rolled her eyes, taking another sip of her drink. “Zero. I have read - and written - a lot of romance stories, and I've encountered zero ripped bodices.” She fixed him with a flat glare. 

There was that secret non-smile in the corner of his mouth again. “I’m curious, how do you manage the mechanics of that? Can’t imagine th-th-those corset things would be as easy to remove as a bra.” His gaze was nonchalant though it never strayed from her face and she felt her cheeks heating up. 

“Well, there are ways around it.” She drank another mouthful of the chocolate and wished she could hide her reddening face behind the mug completely. “For instance, writing a contemporary romance would easily solve that problem. But yes, the corsets are a lot more complicated than bras. Whoever’s doing the, ah, disrobing just needs to be...tenacious.” God, how had she ended up having this conversation with him? 

The sound of his chuckle seemed to send vibrations across the wooden table top and straight into her bloodstream. She dared a glance at him. His face was rich with obvious mirth and she wanted to kick him. 

She pursed her lips, looking away. “But what’s truly complicated is the simple stuff,” she said, determined to bring the conversation back to less unnerving ground. “Like, getting a character from one side of the room to the other, or - or - or something like this,” she said, indicating the mug in her hand. “Describing drinking and eating, picking things up - you wouldn’t think it but it’s often stumped me for longer than I’d like to admit.” 

“Hmm, is th-th-that the problem you’re having now?”

She sighed and took another sip of the hot chocolate. “No, this is more of a plot tangle. I can’t seem to figure out what should happen.”

“Maybe you need a ch-ch-change of scenery,” he mused. 

“ _This_ is the change of scenery,” she said, indicating the space around them with a laugh. 

“Another one, then,” he said, with a casual shrug, as if he lived his life on a string of impulsive decisions. He couldn’t know that coming here to this cottage was enough to fill her impulsive quota for another six month period. 

“Yes,” he said again, nodding emphatically before standing up. “Come on.” 

“What? Where?” 

“To a d-d-different scene.” He looked at her with his eyebrows raised. 

“Now?”

“No t-t-time better than the present.” 

“We - OK. Let me finish this, at least,” she said, and quickly drained what was left of the hot chocolate. 

“So you do like it, then?” he asked with a knowing smile, holding out a hand.

She licked her lips, trying to get the last of the taste. “Yeah, I guess it grew on me,” and she took his offered hand. 

* * *

The small sled slowed as the ground beneath them plateaued before finally coming to a halt. 

“OK, to be honest, I didn’t think we were going to get to the bottom of the hill in one piece.” 

“No kidding.” He’d felt how fast her heart was beating for the duration of the very short ride they’d taken. “You’re a bit of an open book,” he said, letting go of the reins so she could climb to her feet. 

“I’ll try not to take offense at that,” she said as he got off the sled and pulled it out of the way to sit next to a clump of trees. 

“And I’ll try not to be offended by you d-d-doubting my sledding skills,” he said. “Guess we’re even.”

She shook her head, looking around. “So...is this field the change of scenery?” 

“Nope. It’s through here.” He pointed out the small path that led through the trees.

She paused and turned to look up at him. “This isn’t how I die, is it?”

“Not if I have any say in the matter, d-d-darling.” And there was that blush again. He was starting to become familiar with it, starting to long for it. 

“Alright, then,” she said, ducking her head and hiding her cheeks behind her hair. “Lead the way.”

So he did. It wasn’t too far away, and he heard her gasp when she caught sight of it. 

“Whoa. That is. Breathtaking.”

The gazebo was laden with snow, and the early morning sun glinted off the top of it, giving it an unearthly, iridescent glow. 

“I’ve never been here during winter at this time of the morning.” 

“Yeah, it’s something else, isn’t it?” He held out his hand and when she took it guided her over the small bridge that led to the gazebo over the creek. “I know all the trees are dead, but -” he looked around at the branches. He’d always liked the sight of empty branches, for some reason - “they still make me happy.” He looked down to see her gaze locked on him, a distant but compelling look in her eyes that frightened him slightly. He wanted to kiss her, if only to make it impossible for her to keep looking at him like that. But the thought of kissing her frightened him, too. So he tugged her closer, instead, curving an arm around her waist. He clasped her right hand to his chest and began to sway. 

“Are - are we dancing?” she said to his chest.

“Mm hmm.”

“Oh. Without music?”

“You c-c-could sing.” 

He felt her disbelieving laughter. “No, I really couldn’t.” 

“G-g-guess I could sing.” 

She pulled back slightly and looked at him in surprise.

He shrugged. “I’ve been known to sing.” 

She still leaned back, continuing to watch him with slightly raised eyebrows. 

“Enough of that surprised face. Now, I really am offended,” he said, giving her hand a fast tug so that she collided into him, breaking into laughter. 

“Please, don’t let me stop you,” she said, tipping her head up to look at him. 

“You know, I d-d-don’t think you deserve a song any more.” He took a wounded sniff. 

“No, I’m sorry, you’re right,” she said, her apologetic tone failing as her shoulders trembled with laughter. Her head tipped forward, and she took a breath before looking up at him again with an almost straight face. “Please, please do go on.”

But he didn’t. He pulled back, twirled her one, twice, so that she was laughing again, and then pulled her close, hard, so that she wasn’t laughing at all. He could feel the whole of her tense against him, and he brushed a thumb across her bottom lip. He didn’t seem to feel the cold of the open air so much. 

Humming, he started swaying again. “Frosted window panes, candles gleaming inside.” 

He could feel her gloved thumb rubbing back and forth across his shoulder. He dipped his head low and let his lips brush against her temple. 

“Painted candy canes on the tree,” he sang, and the feel of her trembling against him made him smile against the curve of her forehead. He let his breathing mark her skin, however temporarily. “Santa's on his way.”

“He's filled his sleigh with things -” he twirled her again, but this time instead of pulling her close, he dipped her, making her gasp - “things for you and for me.” He didn’t really sing the last words so much as whisper them because he found that he’d lost his voice. Her lips being at such nearness was starting to make the world go hazy. 

She cleared her throat, tensing, and he took her cue and straightened, pulling her up. 

“Told you I could sing,” he said, keeping his voice light as he looked out at the snowy field beyond. 

“Yeah, you did. You’re a triple threat.”

He raised his eyebrows in query. 

“You’re a great Christmas carol singer, hot chocolate maker, and,” she added, her lips curling mischievously, “an airplane seat thief.” 

The laughter caught him by surprise, and he regained his breath only to catch her watching him with a bespelled look in her eyes. After a beat, she coughed and looked away. 

“Thank you for showing me this place.” 

“Yeah, well, you know - a g-g-gazebo in the dead of winter,” he said, taking a step back and looking around. “Th-th-thought it might be prime romance novel material.” 

“Absolutely. So much so that I’ve already included a gazebo scene in my story.” There was that apologetic wrinkle in the nose again. 

“Ah,” he said, sighing to pretend something like disappointment, even though he didn’t feel an iota of it. He wasn’t the least bit sorry that he’d stolen some of her time before she ran off to dinners or holed herself away in the bedroom. 

“But, I’m still glad you brought me here. I can always use it as future material,” she said earnestly, trying to soften her earlier words. He must’ve succeeded too well with the pretense at disappointment.

“You’ll have t-t-to let me read it then, tinsel girl.” 

“If this gazebo appears in one of my stories, then you’ll be the first to know,” she conceded with a tilt of her head. 

He jerked his head back a bit. “Really? I wasn’t expecting you to agree.” 

She shrugged. “Blame your hot chocolate-making skills. It was just that good.”

“I know it,” he said, not bothering to look modest. “It was only a matter of t-t-time before you came around.”

She shook her head, but she was laughing as she turned away and stepped over the bridge. “Come on, let’s get back.” 

And he realized that he liked the sound of her laughter almost as much as her use of “let’s”. He absolutely wanted to be a part of her “let’s”, he decided. 

* * *

It had started snowing again when they were still a good way from the cottage, and when they finally tumbled through the front door of the cottage they were both shivering. 

Rose pulled off her hat and boots, trying to control her chattering teeth. 

“OK, I should probably have ch-ch-checked the forecast before dragging you out,” she heard Diego say behind her. 

“Well, the same could be said of me. We were both idiots,” she said, moving to the lounge and turning to look at him. 

He was pulling off his hat and coat, but his movements slowed when his eyes found her face, and a smile flickered across his lips. He moved closer and lifted a hand to brush her cheek. 

“You have snow on your face.”

“Oh.” He’d removed his gloves already and the heat of his fingers seemed to melt the iciness in her cheeks some. 

She peered up at his face and she only had a moment to notice his smile fade away and the promise of something darker glimmer in his eyes before his lips covered hers. And then she was lost. Lost in a new world which consisted of only the heat and feel of him, dizzying in its newness and frightening in its unexpected familiarity. 

This collision had seemed both inevitable and impossible and her mind reeled even as her body responded to his without any prompting from her. He had her waist clasped in his arms, and hers were clinging to his neck. Her fingers brushed the hairs at the back, their sharpness a tangible reality that grounded her in this sudden, surreal moment. And then she remembered. Remembered why this inevitability had seemed an impossibility. 

She wrenched her lips away from his and shoved at his chest. 

“What the-” He looked bewildered as he staggered back. 

“What was _that_?!”

His look of bewilderment increased and the fact that it made him seem endearing only stoked her fury. 

“A...kiss?” He lifted an eyebrow, looking at her as if she’d gone mad. And maybe she had. 

“Yes, but why! Why did you kiss me? Why did I kiss you?” Her anger was making it hard to articulate her feelings. 

“Shit, because I wanted to.” Sliding his hands into his pockets, he advanced slowly. “Have wanted to since you harassed me at the bag pick-up area. And,” he added, lifting a dark, smug brow, “ _you_ kissed _me_ back because you wanted to.” 

Her hands covered her mouth and she winced. “Oh, God, I did.” 

His brow furrowed as he peered at her. “So, if we both wanted it what’s th-th-the problem, you crazy thing?”

She glared at him, her hands dropping away and she lifted them to shove him away once more but he was too quick for her this time. His fingers circled her wrists and he held her back, his grip firm. 

“Because, you _idiot_ ,” she hissed, trying in vain to twist her wrists out of his grasp, “you have a girlfriend!”

“What?” He had the nerve to frown, looking for all the world as if he had no idea what she was talking about.

“Don’t give me the innocent act. I heard you talking to her, remember?” 

He blinked down at her, and then had the audacity to smile. “Right. We ah… broke up. Actually, that phone call you overheard was her breaking up with me.”

The fury that had raged in her had suddenly dwindled to a small spark, threatening to quickly become embarrassment instead. “Oh.” 

“Mm hmm.” His lips curved and the corners of his eyes were crinkled in amusement. He tugged at her wrists, pulling her close so that she had to tilt her head up to look up at him. “‘Oh’ is exactly right, you little viper.”

The second kiss was slow, measured, and she could almost taste his laughter as it slipped from his mouth to hers.

“Stop - laughing,” she muttered between kisses, enjoying the way his beard scratched softly at her chin. 

“Can’t help it,” he said, not bothering to hold back his chuckle. He broke away from her mouth to trace his lips down her jaw. “You were j-j-just so -” he paused to nibble at the base of her throat, making her pulse skitter in an embarrassing fashion. She felt his fingers fist at her back, twisting the fabric of her knitted dress, and he pulled her even closer, lifting her up slightly. She gasped at the hardness of him against her stomach, wriggling helplessly, and he groaned. 

“Just so what?” she breathed. 

She felt him shake his head, and the tips of his hair tickled her jaw. “Can’t - remember - what I was saying.” His voice came out in rough fragments and it left her light-headed with power. 

Still holding onto her, he moved back until he bumped against the extra large ottoman, the movement jostling their kiss. He lowered himself onto it, settling her so that she straddled his legs. 

“These d-d-damned things are driving me crazy,” he muttered, running calloused fingers along her neckline. 

She blinked in confusion and looked down. It was a modest dress, all things considered. “What?”

“These stupid things.” He touched the little cut-out eyelets that ran along the neckline, before ending at the centre in a little ribboned bow. “It’s fucking erotic,” he breathed, dipping his head and then she felt his tongue lave at her skin through the holes in the fabric. His fingers found the ends of the bow and gave them an angry tug. 

“Well, I…I didn’t know,” she said over his bent head, mystified. 

Letting out a soft chuckle, he lifted his head so that he could kiss her once again. His hands coasted down her front, travelling lower, finding the hem of her dress and slipping beneath. His touch at her thighs made her jerk up and he moaned. 

She held onto his shoulder with one hand while her other one scrambled to find his inquisitive fingers. She batted at them, but he only linked her fingers in his, lifting her hand to give it a quick kiss before continuing with his exploration. 

“Wait.”

He simply murmured something incomprehensible, not waiting at all. She could feel his warm fingers at her stomach now as they tugged at the waistline of her leggings. 

She gripped both his shoulders and gave him a gentle push. “Wait. I just -”

He pulled back, his eyes dark with hunger. His hair was an absolute mess and his lips were reddened and she felt something inside her become undone. 

“I um…” She flatted one hand against his chest, as if she might be able to draw some courage from the solidity of him. “I don’t usually do this.”

He blinked and his gaze became less abstracted, more focused. “D-d-do what?” A tender smile snuck onto his lips and she was momentarily breathless. He rubbed at her chin with his thumb. “You don’t deal with beard burn?” 

“No,” she said, playing with the little zipper at the neck of his sweater, forcing herself to hold his gaze. “I mean, the whole - casual sex thing.” 

“Ah.” He regarded her thoughtfully, sucking on his teeth. “Hmm. I c-c-could put on a blazer, if that would help?” He twisted his eyebrows comically, but there was a quiet, watchfulness to his gaze nonetheless. 

She tilted her head to the side, narrowing her eyes even as she tried to fight her smile from growing. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

His hand was still at her chin and he grasped it now, tugging her face forward gently and brushing a feathersoft kiss against her lips. 

He nodded, letting their lips move against each other. “Th-th-there’s a first time for everything, querida. But I don’t want you doing anything you don’t want to do.” His eyes were as direct and straightforward as his words, and they, more than anything else, seemed to make the decision for her.

This time she was one who lifted a hand to caress his chin, pressing the pads of her fingers against the stubble, running a thumb along the line of his cheekbone. She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, and as simple as it was, he groaned. She nodded and kissed him again, pressing all of her closer to him.

“You sure?” he ground out, and when she nodded, he grabbed her hips, roiling his up against hers, tearing a whimper from her. 

Gasping, she tugged at the zipper, pulling it all the way down to let his sweater fall open. She pushed it back from his shoulders, his appreciative hum seeming to vibrate through their intersecting limbs. He had on a green t-shirt underneath which he pulled off and dumped unceremoniously before pulling her close for another kiss. It was insistent, hungry, and she barely had opportunity to draw breath. The blistering heat of his skin unspooled her thoughts, and she clung to him, running her hands up his chest, her fingers trailing against the hair there. 

“Enough,” he groaned, his tone full of warning and want as he grabbed her wrists. “I can’t wait.” 

In less than a minute, he had pulled her dress off, tugged her legging down, and had her lying on the carpeted floor, breathlessly considering the ceiling of Rosehill Cottage, while he licked at her breasts.

“If I’d known two days ago that this would happen...” she said, wonderingly, as he pulled at her underwear.

“You wouldn’t have come?” he asked, pausing to look up at her, as if the answer truly mattered. 

“Oh, no,” she shook her head, then nodded. “I would have.”

His grin was wolfish. “And I’m going t-t-to make sure you will.”

Her breathless giggles didn’t last long because his fingers had found their way between her legs and soon she was writhing into his hand, the shameless sounds spilling from her mouth only making her face heat up even more. His fingers seemed merciless in their unravelling of her. 

“I - I can’t,” she gasped, but when he pulled his hand away she was disappointed. 

“No,” he said, sitting back and unbuckling his belt. “You c-c-can’t.” He pulled a condom from his back pocket and tore open its packaging, his eyes pinning her to the ground. “At least, not without me.” And then his lips slid from provocative to playful. “Just wouldn’t be polite,” he added with a shrug, and it tore a laugh from her, even as she ached between her legs. 

“You’re so stupid,” she said, shaking her head against the carpet, before she stilled as his lips caught hers again. 

“I blame you,” he huffed, and then in a few moments he was inside her, and she decided he was, in fact, not stupid at all, but brilliant. Brilliant, and maddening, and - and a _bastard_ , because he was driving into her in torturously slow, cruel strokes. 

She reached out, clasping her hands around his neck and pulling him close for a kiss, licking at his lips, grazing her teeth against the hairs on his chin. It seemed to do the trick because he seemed to forget all about slowness and in the next moment she was coming apart beneath him, her chest tight, her breath having left her entirely. She lay there under him, spent, his head buried in the crook of her shoulder, before he, too, tensed, groaning long and deep, before collapsing atop her. 

It seemed that the whole world consisted of only the instances where their bodies met, and that time was measured only in the beats of their breathing. Everything else seemed to have fallen away, and they seemed to lay still for a century. 

And then he shifted, nuzzling his nose against her ear, nipping at it, before he rolled off her and onto his back. Stretching out an arm, he grabbed the blanket that was draped over the handle of the armchair nearby and laid it out over the both of them. He pulled her close and she curled into him, a sudden burst of tenderness for him propelling her to place a small kiss on his chin. 

She watched him regard her with a slightly puzzled look in his eyes before it slipped away, and she almost saw the mental shrug as he tossed any serious questions aside. His lips were smug behind his beard. 

“A gazebo and floor sex. Th-th-that should last you for a few more scenes, shouldn’t it?” he asked, cocking an arrogant eyebrow. 

“You’re an idiot,” she said, a bubble of laughter escaping her, and - deciding to forget the puzzled look for now - she leaned up and kissed him. 

**Author's Note:**

> i think rian johnson should've made use of benicio del toro's excellent voice and had dj sing (rose) a few lines.  
> anyways, let me know what you think.  
> a couple of things:  
> *"querida" means "sweetheart"  
> *the song dj sings in the gazebo is "the christmas waltz."  
> happy holidays. ✨


End file.
